Three of Swords (Empire Asunder Book 1)

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Today the two merely nodded in silence as he checked in. An extra bandage had been wrapped around the king’s head, leading Nico to wonder whether the scalp had started bleeding anew. Troubling in itself, but not his greatest concern, for the worst damage was invisible—having been done by a mace to the temple, a blow so forceful that Anton’s helmet had had to be cut open and pried off.

  There were times during the battle that Nico had thought he was defending a corpse. Yet he had led the Threeshields in one charge after another, each time regrouping with fewer numbers, until Iago’s determined center had finally relented and pulled back. Twice the fighting had gotten so chaotic that Nico worried the troopers were surrounded—the deadliest situation for cavalry—but both times they had fought their way clear with brutal, bloody desperation. He did not know exactly when Captain Bayard had fallen—in hindsight Nico recalled giving the orders from beginning to end—nor Renard, Mip, Angus, Landon, Keldon…any of the dead and wounded. Names and faces had meant little at the time; there were only some soldiers to command and others to kill, not unlike the pieces of a game. He was relieved for that, for Nico did not think he could lead a unit in battle and worry about losses at the same time. There was only one objective, to win, and the price was something to count up afterward.

  Nico felt little comfort that the king yet lived. Following the battle, he would happily have exchanged Anton’s life for Renard’s, or for any of the other fallen Akenbergers. Perhaps now, days later, he still would. But that was not an option, so Nico tried to content himself with a dose of happiness for Tobias and Leti.

  He returned to his suite the same as every night, exhausted but unable to sleep.

  In the morn, he was able to make some progress reorganizing his command. Nico himself would now effectively function as the captain, but one of the squadrons had lost its corporal. A replacement was necessary, and the decision came quickly.

  Nico wished he had a personal aide for such administrative duties. This was a time when he would have sought Renard’s grudgingly useful advice, bounced a decision off him, then sent the retainer to the barracks to bring back the trooper in question. Now missing his old companion in function as well as spirit, Nico instead walked to the barracks to deliver the news in person.

  He entered, instantly appreciating the visible attention and silent respect of these men and women, then made the announcement: “Private Manus, please step forward. I need someone to replace Corporal Keldon. Are you up to it? Good. You must now think of your squadron before yourself… I recommend you not take all their coin in cards for a while.” There were a few smiles, and some of the soldiers congratulated the new corporal.

  Nico left them and headed toward the sparring chamber. He did not have a practice sword or shield with him, so hoped to borrow the pair from someone else. He needed to clear his mind of ancillary worry, and knew of no better way to do so than through swordfighting.

  The chamber was far less crowded than the last time. There were perhaps a dozen duelists in action, and another half that number spectating or assisting.

  His eyes immediately went to an unusual, rather dispiriting sight—one of the swordsmen practicing alone. Nico watched the tall, skinny man stab the air, spin completely around, and raise the wooden blade up high in a mock parry. Nico stepped closer, intending to compliment the precision of the maneuver. Then he hesitated at the realization this was Prince Tobias himself, a few days’ growth of dark beard and a fierce countenance now giving an older appearance that Nico had not recognized.

  Remembering the youth’s shy reaction at their prior meeting, Nico calmed his manner and lowered his voice as he approached. “Prince Tobias, I am pleased to see you.”

  The younger prince flinched, but said nothing, leading Nico to worry that the boy might flee again.

  Hoping not, he looked around. “Prince, where is your trainer?”

  “Silgo was killed in the battle.”

  Nico was less surprised by the statement than by Tobias’ making it. If the boy still seemed a little shy, he at least had not stuttered. Progress.

  “I am saddened to hear it.” Nico felt a moment of shared, silent sadness pass between them, immediately discovering a fondness for the boy. “Come on then, young prince, that routine is called Hansa’s Gambit...he used it at the Battle of Ethena, when our ancestors drove out the Chekiks. But there is more to it than what you’re doing. Let me show you.”

  An hour passed quickly. When it was over, Nico realized he had successfully diverted his attention, at least for a time. He was tempted to thank Toby, but did not wish to ruin their budding mentor-disciple relationship.

  “You need to practice this every day for five tendays, until you start doing it in your mind at night with your eyes closed and without conscious thought.”

  Toby nodded. “I will.”

  “Good man. Meet me here on the morrow. We’ll start a new routine.”

  The lad’s grin gave Nico a moment to feel good. He took the time to savor the feeling, for it had been missing too long.

  “Toby!” came a familiar voice. “It’s nearly time for dinner.”

  Suddenly looking much younger, as if the beard hair might fall from his cheeks, Toby dashed away. Nico found himself alone with Leti in the exchange. He smiled at her, feeling unexpectedly awkward. The two of them had shared a moment of vulnerability before the battle, but he was uncertain whether it was better to acknowledge or bury that memory.

  Her quiet manner suggested that he was not the only one who felt the awkwardness. “Thank you for helping him,” she said at last. “I know he is thrilled.”

  “My pleasure. He’s got talent.”

  She smiled, and he could see she believed he was merely being polite. “Well, I hope he doesn’t become a burden. You must be very busy.”

  “Yes, but I’ll make time for the things I enjoy.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You really enjoy teaching my brother?”

  “Very much,” he said, thinking of how welcome the distraction had been.

  Some of the reservation left her smile. “I’m pleased to hear it,” she said with enthusiasm.

  “Don’t tell him, though,” Nico said conspiratorially, hushing his voice. He leaned closer. “It would never do for a student to think his teacher likes him.”

  She grinned, then stopped as she saw the change on his face.

  The thought, meant to be a jest, had reminded Nico of his own interactions with Renard, and the dour man’s suddenly obvious fondness for him. The unexpectedly abrupt nature of the memory jolted him, and he found himself fighting back unexpected tears.

  Leti’s lips creased in sympathy. “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said quietly.

  He regained control, composed himself, and nodded. “Your pardon, Princess, but I need to see to my company.” He bowed a little more stiffly than intended.

  She nodded, and he left the chamber, admonishing himself. He needed to control his emotions much better than that, and do so before his next stop. He was headed back to the field hospital.

  “What the rotting Devil was that?” Nico growled.

  Toby’s face twisted in embarrassment, knowing he had bungled the routine, following the high slash with a parry at the knees instead of lower, at ankle-height. Such slight deviations could mean the difference between winning and losing a swordfight, and often between surviving or dying.

  Nico wondered how often his young companion had been cursed at. From personal experience, Nico guessed it happened rarely, if ever. In his brief exposure to Silgo, Nico had pegged him as a servant who treated his royal pupil respectfully. An admirable quality for learning geography or etiquette, but not for swordfighting. Nico had already decided to take a firmer approach with the boy. Even so, he was surprised at how easily the coarse speech came to him. He better understood how Renard had picked up the habit.

  “I’m sorry, Nico. It won’t happen again.”

  “Liar. You’re tired, aren’t you? It’s eas
y to cheat a little when you’re tired.”

  The younger prince nodded.

  “You can’t get tired, Toby. Not in swordfighting. Not ever. I want you to run and stretch for at least one hour every day, and work your arms with the ropes for at least ten minutes more.”

  “Ten minutes?” It probably sounded like an impossibility. Nico had certainly thought so, the first time he had been ordered into the routine. The ropes were attached to a heavy horizontal wheel, difficult to turn. The exercise involved keeping one’s feet planted and torso straight, using only the arms to pull the rope, notch by notch, its entire length of ten feet. A few minutes—and about half the length of the rope—was all Nico had been able to do for the first few months, but he had eventually worked himself up to the ten daily minutes Renard demanded. The work had done wonders. After a year, holding shield and sword felt as easy as carrying a knife and fork.

  “Tell me, why do you practice?”

  “I want to be a Swordthane.”

  Nico had a feeling this would be the response. Every boy’s impossible dream. Toby was much too slow and gangling to ever achieve the honor, and it was probably better to dash those hopes early before they got him into trouble. But for this moment, Nico decided to use them as motivation.

  “It doesn’t come easily.”

  “I know.”

  “Then ten minutes, all right?”

  “Yes, Nico.”

  There was a scoffing noise behind him, and Nico spun to look into the scarred face of a man he did not recognize. A soldier, given the chain mail he wore and the steel helmet he carried on his hip. Then Nico recognized the emblem on the man’s tabard as that of the Royal Guard. Even more recognizable was the surprising cloak on his back, and the headpin that matched Nico’s own. The slight reddening of the cheeks and the extra notch cut into the belt hinted at a fondness for beer or mead, but the eyes revealed the hardness of a man who had seen his share of blood. Not someone to be trifled with, and a demeanor indicating he was used to everyone knowing that.

  The lips twisted in a malicious grin. “You should tell the boy what his chances of being a Swordthane really are. Zero.” Then he began looking Nico up and down, reconsidering. “Although it appears they are letting anyone in these days.”

  This was Nico’s first encounter with another Thane, and thus his only first-hand experience with the natural rivalry that blossomed between them. He had heard about it, however, and felt his own compulsion to lash back with tongue or blade, instinctively wanting to prove his superiority. But he was also a prince, and princes did not pick fights with underlings.

  Aware that the entire room had stopped to watch, that all eyes were upon him, Nico quickly spoke up.

  “It’s an honor,” he said. “What is your name, Thane?”

  The shoulders squared up. “Zenza,” he said. “But I—”

  “Toby, I want you to study this man Zenza. He is someone who had the skill and dedication to achieve entry into the order.” Toby stared, and the man’s chest puffed out noticeably. “And what has he chosen to do with this honor?” Nico continued. “Drink himself soft and criticize boys half his age.”

  On the other hand, he did not want Zenza bothering Toby in the future. Better to resolve this now.

  The lips twisted again. “I’ll show you soft, Prince.” He spat the last word out like an insult, taking a step forward and reaching a hand to the hilt of his sword. Nico did the same, and found himself eye-to-eye. They were roughly the same height and build. What the man had lost with his few extra pounds would be made up for in experience. Nico wondered how many years Zenza had successfully defended his membership and status, but did not wonder whether the man finished those fights by killing his opponent.

  “Stop it! Both of you!”

  Leti pushed herself in between the two of them and shoved each back a step, one at a time. Then she turned first to Nico’s opponent. “Zenza, return immediately to the guard headquarters. There’s important news for you there.”

  Zenza said nothing, but he bowed and flashed a final glance toward Nico before turning away.

  Nico looked down at Leti, seeing genuine anger mixed with something else—worry? Her tanned skin had turned a shade darker, and her eyes darted back and forth as she looked up at him. “And you, a prince! You should know better than to risk another conflict with us just when an alliance is possible.”

  “The ways of the order supersede even those of nobility, Leti.” He felt Toby’s presence beside him, and knew that the boy was silently providing his support.

  Her eyes flashed. “So now it’s Leti again, is it?” She caught herself, composing her face into some semblance of restraint. “If your stupid order forces you to get killed for no reason, days after saving a city, then I fail to see why anyone would want to join.”

  She looked away, and he tried to think of a way to explain. Then he recalled her words to Zenza. “Did you say there is important news?”

  He watched as the tension melted out of her shoulders. She looked at Nico and Toby together, encompassing them both in the radiance of her sudden, joyful smile. “Father’s awake.”

  Having no idea what was expected of him in the upcoming ceremony, Nico simply followed the few instructions he had been given, dressing in his finest Akenberg regalia and awaiting the summons.

  When the page came—the same who had called him to Anton’s presence the day before the battle—the lad took Nico’s hand to lead him through the castle corridors as if he were a dimwitted child or a head of livestock. They stopped in a small antechamber with a pair of thick red curtains blocking the way ahead. Nico had never been in this chamber before, but could see well enough between the curtains to know they were directly off the grand throne room, which for the first time since his arrival was filled to capacity with onlookers.

  Above the muffled din of hundreds of people filing in and forming tight rows, boisterous music played from an unseen orchestra. The strings sounded eager and triumphant, but the steady pounding of the drums reminded Nico of those blacksmith hammers from a few morns earlier—an unpleasant recollection, making him wish for the ceremony to be over sooner than later.

  The page tapped his arm, then all but pushed him forward. Nico stepped through the curtains. He noted a quickening change in the tempo of the music at the same time he orientated himself in the massive room, and realized in annoyance that he would have to traverse its entire length to reach the raised dais and throne to pay his respects in whatever way they deemed necessary. He hoped there would be another servant there to direct him, for they had given him no instructions at all on that part of the service.

  As Nico walked between the rows of the soldiers, he noted again their rigid precision, just like the day he had arrived in Cormona. He was one of thirty-four then, but was now one of only twenty-two. He wished the other twenty-one were beside him now.

  As he neared the dais, he looked up to see who else was present. There was the stoic Captain Gornada and white-bearded retainer Jacinto, of course, but Nico was pleasantly surprised to see Toby and Leti with them. The prince was grinning from ear to ear, clearly more enthusiastic about the festivities than Nico was. He looked like he could barely stand still, such was the excitement contained inside his lanky body. The princess was decorated once more, just as she had been the first time he had seen her. Her expression was far more reserved than her brother’s, but there was intensity concealed beneath. The relief—if not glee—of her father’s recovery was evident in the carriage of her narrow shoulders and the gleam in those deep brown eyes.

  As startled as he was by the prince and princess, he was even more taken aback to see Anton himself present and already seated. Nico expected the king to be the last one to arrive, befitting his importance as the person of honor. Seeing him now caused Nico to wonder about the man’s injuries. Certainly, it would be understandable if he had difficulty moving about. Perhaps he needed to remain stationary through these proceedings.

  Behind the
m the huge red and gold banner blazed in the bright lights, just as they had before in Nico’s imagination.

  Upon climbing the three steps to join the royal family on the dais, he looked about for a suitable place to stand. Seeing no openings, he froze in place and fought back a wave of panic, aware that everyone was staring.

  King Anton stood, dispelling one concern. The man turned toward Leti, who reached forward and handed an object to her father. It was a wreath of olive leaves, with which the king stepped toward Nico. “Kneel,” he ordered.

  For the second time in days, comprehension came late. This was not a celebration of the king’s recovery at all. Nico knelt, and felt the wreath placed over his head. The music reached a crescendo, bowstrings a blur, pounding drums threatening to drown out everything but his thumping heart. Then a signal was given, an allowance for the crowd to finally voice the elation that had been held back these past days, and the music disappeared beneath the roar of hundreds of appreciative Asturians cheering at once.

  During the banquet that followed—an event blessedly restricted to a mere few dozen attendees—Nico limited conversation and wine in equal measures. Both threatened to overwhelm him if he did not remain on constant guard. Asturia was rightfully proud of its wine, and this vintage suited to the regal affair—but even so he sipped sparingly, leaving the more enthusiastic quaffing to others.

  He seemed to be the favorite person of every man and woman present—including those he had never met—and they all wanted to know his opinion on a range of topics, from the abdication of Emperor Eberhart to the sightings of giant animals in the south and the unusual sea storms in the west. He was thankful for the years of etiquette training that allowed him to coast through the function with little more than reflexive wit.